I don't realize how quiet the house is until I close the door behind me.
The familiar creak of the hinges, the muted hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen, the faint ticking of the clock in the hallway. It all feels louder than usual. Or maybe I'm just more aware. More present.
I drop my keys into the bowl by the door and shrug off my jacket, hanging it on the back of the chair. My mom and sister aren't home yet. Wedding errands, probably. My dad's car is gone too.
I'm alone.
I move to my room on autopilot, toeing off my shoes and sitting at the edge of the bed. My phone is still in my hand. I hadn't even realized I'd kept it out.
Felix's face flashes in my mind. Soft smile, warm eyes, the way he looked at me like I was something familiar but new all at once.
I shake my head lightly, as if that will clear the thought.
It was just coffee.
Just a conversation.
Just two people catching up after eight years.
Or that's what I tell myself. It felt like more.
I fall back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. The same faint crack above the light fixture is still there. I remember noticing it in high school, lying here with my headphones on, blasting music loud enough to drown out everything else.
Back then, all I wanted was out.
Now, I'm not so sure.
My phone buzzes.
I sit up instantly, heart doing something annoying and unnecessary.
A message.
Felix:I hope you got home safe.
I stare at the screen longer than I should. I smiled.
He didn't have to text. But he did. Simple. Thoughtful. Very him.
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
I did. Thanks for meeting me today.
I delete it.
Too formal.
I had a good time today.
Delete.
Too honest.
I exhale slowly and type again.
I did. And… yeah. I'm glad we met.
I send it before I can second-guess myself.
The reply comes a minute later.
Me too.
My cheeks burn.
Just two words, and yet something in my chest loosens.
I place my phone face-down on the bed like it might burn me if I look at it too long.
This is ridiculous, I think. I don't do this. I don't sit around overanalyzing texts and moments and smiles. I make decisions. I move forward. I build things.
But feelings don't follow business plans.
I stand up and move to my bookshelf, running my fingers along the spines. Old trophies sit on the top shelf, math competitions, debate medals, academic awards. Proof of who I was. Or who I thought I needed to be.
On the lower shelf, half-hidden behind books, is an old yearbook.
I don't remember putting it there.
I pull it out and sit on the floor, back against the bed, flipping through pages slowly. Faces blur together—people I barely remember, names I've long forgotten.
Then I find him.
Felix Sinclair.
His photo is exactly how I remember him. Shy smile. Slightly too-big blazer. Eyes that already held more than he ever said.
I trace the edge of the picture with my thumb.
"You weren't invisible," I murmur to the empty room.
I flip a few pages back and stop.
There I am.
Arms crossed, chin lifted, defiant even in a still photograph. I look so sure of myself. So certain of where I was going. I looked like a rebel. Maybe I still am.
Why did I let myself go of the part that made me feel alive? Could I change back in to that person again?
My phone buzzes again.
I don't flip it over this time. I let it buzz, then stop.
The silence that follows isn't uncomfortable. It's… calm.
I close the yearbook and slide it back onto the shelf.
Maybe this is what growth feels like—not rushing, not running, not forcing clarity where there isn't any yet.
Later that evening, my sister bursts through the front door, energy filling the house instantly.
"Roxy!" Maya calls. "You will not believe the disaster that just happened with the florist."
I smile despite myself and meet her in the kitchen. "Tell me everything."
As she talks, animated and dramatic, I nod and laugh in the right places. I'm present. I really am. But somewhere in the back of my mind, Felix lingers like a soft echo.
At dinner, my mom eyes me curiously.
"You seem lighter," she says.
I pause mid-bite. "Lighter?"
"Yes," she nods. "Less tense."
I shrug. "Guess I'm on vacation."
She hums, unconvinced but satisfied enough. "You seem like you'd be back into your rebel self any minute. And if I'm honest, I missed that laidback version of you. You're so stressed all the time, you forget to have fun. You forget to break the rules."
She smiles at me and leaves the kitchen.
What would my teenage self even do?
That night, when the house settles again and I'm back in my room, I check my phone one last time.
No new messages.
I don't feel disappointed.
Instead, I feel… steady.
Whatever this is with Felix, whatever it could become, it doesn't feel rushed or overwhelming. It feels like something that can unfold slowly, if I let it.
And for the first time in a long time, I don't feel the urge to run ahead of my own life.
I turn off the light and lie back, staring into the darkness.
Tomorrow, there will be wedding plans and reunions and decisions waiting for me.
But tonight, I let myself rest in the quiet.
In what lingers.